


Spirit nigh spirit

by smiling_elenilin



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smiling_elenilin/pseuds/smiling_elenilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finwë and Míriel meet once more in the Halls of Mandos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirit nigh spirit

Silence.

Pillars towered him, pillars that sank in the darkness of an unseen ceiling. Faint starlight seemed to pierce the thin dark veil, though he was…empty. There was suddenly no weariness, no hunger, no love, no scorn, no fire and no ice.

Silence.

The world he had left behind. A long while was needed for thoughts to be clear once again in his mind. All had befallen him so suddenly: a darkness so deep it had been palpable, a shadow. He had stood as tall as those heroes in the tales he had told his children ere they slept. All had run but him. I shall not be bent. It might have been his last thought as the mace had crushed him. The pain had been sharp and cruel, biting his face, yet brief. Silence. Silence suddenly surrounded him. It was too quiet to be a pure one as a child’s laughter. It was a silence which concealed a riddle or a storm he was not prepared to greet. He might have well found once more he was no hero and no king. I simply led them to the Realm of the Valar. _They chose me, but did I choose them?_

Silence was torn. A sigh. A sorrowful one. Another sigh and another and another and another until they were turned to sobs. Someone wept. A woman, as it seemed. He drew - or sooner floated - towards where the sorrow came from. Yet the voice he knew, though no word was yet spoken. His heart… _I no longer have one. I am devoid of all but memories._

“Míriel.”

The word he uttered unknowingly as though his lips had gained will of their own. She rose her gaze. And he had never beheld grief so deep. Her eyes were not reddened, yet somehow they appeared watery to him. Her oh so beautiful hair was messy, her feet bare and her raiment had long lost colour.

“Finwë...”

Her voice was shaky, but the word was as a sword in his heart. With a furrowed brow, he glanced at the tapestry near which Míriel had fallen onto her knees to weep. “Fëanáro…” she wailed as she clung to the likeness of her son. It was as if she sought to embrace him, to reassure him, to soften his fire with her word. But Fëanáro was stern even in his own depictions.

“Míriel, I…” Words stumbled in his throat. It had been a less demanding task to bring his councillors to take heed to his word. Yet not even the most soft caress would have eased his first wife’s sorrow. The silver haired form turned to him, “I have seen. I have known and yet such was my blindness! I should have never forsaken you and him. Our boy, Finwë, our boy…”

Noldóran gathered her in his arms, though they were no more than fëar. His hröa had been warm and mighty, though his spirit was as a thin veil. _It is frail. I am frail._ And he was even less a hero then, when he knew he had failed both Míriel and his most beloved son. The proud king allowed himself a brief moment of weakness. Who would have seen his ghostly tears? “You were weary, Míriel,” he reassured her, “I understood.”


End file.
